Birthday Wish
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: Christine has a wish for her birthday. Mostly fluff. Oneshot. Leroux E/C.


Some fluff, written for Wheel of Fish's birthday.

Leroux-verse. Oneshot.

* * *

 **Birthday Wish**

Christine let out a soft sigh, leaning ever so slightly against her Maestro's upper arm. The notes plinking from the piano keys increased in tempo for a moment before relaxing again, and she smiled knowingly.

Only a few days had passed since he had first permitted this kind of closeness between them. She hoped one day that he would allow it without flinching, that her presence at his side would become as familiar as the feeling of the keys beneath his fingertips. They were spending more and more time together in his home beneath the Populaire, but his progression had been painstakingly slow.

Letting her eyelashes drift close, she focused on the melodious sounds he coaxed from the instrument in front of them. She had been sitting upon this bench for almost an hour with him at her side. Erik normally would not have allowed her such close proximity for such a large amount of time. His shyness toward her, his never-failing anxiety at her very presence, typically sent him skittering away amidst a mass of apologies. Today, however, she had used his own sentimentality against him.

It was her birthday. And when he had asked what she desired most… well, she could not very well say _him._ She blushed whenever her mind drifted in that devious direction, and she did not know how Erik might react.

Instead, she had asked that he please her this afternoon by playing for her on the piano and allow her to sit by his side. His eyes, cast in shadow as they were by his full mask, glittered in the firelight. She thought he might protest, but he had bowed low and accepted her single request.

Belly full of dinner and a glass of wine, she had grown drowsy with contentment. Now, she relaxed against his arm, letting his songs wash over her. Next to her legs, his own shifted with his tapping of the pedals. Beneath her cheek, the wiry muscles of his bicep bunched and hardened with his movements. She had grown to love this different, odd, body of his, the way he used every breadth of limb and torso to his advantage no matter his actions. At first, she had found him incredibly intimidating, especially since he towered over her even when slouched.

There was something sweet about him, something that had turned her hesitation into fondness. When he had asked her to spend her weekends with him, she had agreed. With moments like this, she had no regrets.

She was beginning to doze when Erik hit the wrong key, the chord startling her. He immediately stopped playing, jerking his gloved hands from the piano and placing them upon his thighs. Eyes flying open, she straightened and looked up at him.

"What happened?" she asked.

Still staring down at the keys, he shook his head. "No matter, my angel. A missed key. Nothing more."

But Erik never made a mistake. Frowning, she glanced downward, noticing his glare was directed not at the piano, but at his hands. Rare was a moment that he ever removed his black gloves. Despite the fact that she had not seen them often, she did love his hands with his long, elegant fingers and broad palms.

Wanting to soothe him, she placed one of her own hands on top of his. "Please, maestro. What is the matter?"

He did glance at her then, his eyes glowing golden in the low light. Her heart fluttered. She so wanted him to trust her.

"Ah," he said, his thumb flexing to stroke the edge of her finger atop his. "What a lovely expression upon your face, my dear. Are you sure you are so eager to discover what ails me? You ought to realize by now that you tread upon dangerous territory." With his other hand, he tapped his mask.

She understood immediately what he meant. Her lips turned down in a frown. "Erik, I have told you before that you should not cover yourself for my sake. If your hands match your appearance, that makes little difference in how I already see you."

His eyes searched hers. In response, he slid his gloved hand free of hers, then lifted it, palm upward, as though offering it to her. "My hands pain me," he explained, shifting his body away in discomfort of his confession. "On occasion, the skin dries and splits. Tonight, their state is worse than most."

"Then you should take off your gloves," she replied. "They must chafe."

"Indeed," he murmured.

Catching his hand between her own, she lowered it to her lap. Then she proceeded to peel off his glove, the fine black leather slipping free of his palm enough for her to tug each of the fingers. She had often felt his hand wrapped around her own, so she was not surprised by the boniness of its digits, nor at the knobby knuckles or long, tapered fingertips. However, she could not help but emit a gasp upon the sight of the state of his skin.

At the sound, he attempted to tug his hand away, but she held fast. "Your poor hand," she said, tears blurring her vision. "You've not been taking good care of yourself, have you?"

He had no reply to that but let her examine his hand. His knuckles were split, the dry skin a grayish color. She held his hand as tenderly as she could, and his skin was cold to her touch. Beside her, he visibly trembled, but she ignored his reaction; it was one she had seen often from him. Her thumbs smoothed over the patches of unbroken skin, feeling the roughness. Her poor maestro saw to her every need and yet treated himself like this.

"I have an idea," she said, laying his hand limply upon his own thigh. "Stay here?"

Wordless, he nodded.

Christine slid from the edge of the bench and hurried to her room. Among her belongings, she searched for and found a small jar, and brought it back to the living room. The fire had burned a little low, so she paused to stoke the flames, highlighting Erik's straight-backed form still at the piano. He had not moved from his position.

Closing the piano key cover, she set the jar atop it after unscrewing the lid. The scent of rose began to permeate the air. "I use this whenever my feet grow calloused from pointe." She blushed a bit at her openness. "I find it eases the tightness in the skin, if you would let me?"

She worried at his silence, but he allowed her to take his hand again. Holding his hand with one of her own, she dipped her fingers into the jar and scooped out a bit of the cool lotion. The thick whitish cream dolloped onto one of his large knuckles. Gently, she spread it out, first with tentative pressure then with an ever-firmer massage to ease the lotion into his skin. She was careful to avoid the seeping cracks across his knuckles.

His voice, when he finally spoke, rumbled out of him in almost a whisper. "What is this?"

"One of my few indulgences," she replied, trying to stay more focused upon working the cream into his skin than wondering why she had taken so long to simply ask him to take off his gloves. "Wax-based, I think? The scent comes from rose-water and almond oil."

He shook his head slightly. "No, I mean, _this_." The hand she had been massaging rose, fingers curling, to touch her cheek with the edge of a fingertip. "You… how are you real?"

Her eyes widened, heat flashing to her face, no doubt coloring the very cheek he had touched. "I-I simply am, maestro." He went to remove his hand, but she grasped it and pressed the length of his palm against the side of her face. The entirety of his hand was enough to encompass her cheek from forehead to jaw.

Behind his mask, his yellow eyes darted about, the pupils narrowing as though he was frightened. She gazed back at him, willing her face to remain smooth and calm despite the pounding of her heart. His skin had warmed a little under her ministrations, but his hand still felt cool against her own skin.

"I do not deserve this kindness," he said, his other hand fisting at his hip.

"Nonsense," she said softly. "And anyway, what matters is that _I_ like to give it." Gently, she removed his hand from her face and set it aside. Then, she took up his other, smoothing the fisted bones of his hand until he allowed her to relax it fully. Spooning more cream with her fingers, she began to massage this hand as well. "You shall let me tend to you every evening, Erik, without argument. How many lectures have you given me about taking care of my voice? Your hands are your instrument."

He did not reply, and she ignored his other hand, which crept to the edge of her skirt and clutched onto a fold of satin.

It was her birthday, and she supposed it was the best birthday she had experienced in a number of years. A year ago, Erik had been her Angel of Music, the voice in her dressing room who had decided to instruct her. A year before that, she had spent her birthday with Meg, but the other girl had gotten a cold and fallen asleep early.

A smile tugged at her lips. Today, she was with her maestro, a man who was slowly becoming more than merely her instructor.

"There." Finishing with his hand, she clasped both and brought them to her cheeks, cupping her face within the large expanse of his palms. The skin of each, while still cool, still rough, was no longer quite so scratchy.

He gasped aloud. "Angel!"

She did smile then. "Would you leave them uncovered when we are together? Please?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Would you permit me to touch your face again?"

"I would," she said, grin broadening.

They sat there, upon the piano bench, for some time afterward, until a yawn crept over her. He straightened immediately, extending a hand to help her stand. She took it, bare hand to bare hand, his grip strong.

"Good night, my angel," he said, pausing at the door to her bedroom.

"Good night, Erik."

Folding the towering length of his body, he bent over her hand, pressing the mouth of his mask ever so slightly to her knuckles. One day, she hoped he might replace his mask with his lips...

Once alone in her room, she changed for bed and slipped beneath the covers. That night, she dreamt of his touch, of roughened skin raising gooseflesh across her own, of bony fingers seeking hidden places, of his hips pressing her into the bed.

They spent the next day together, in his home beneath the opera. Not once did he put on his gloves.


End file.
